Three years ago today, I apprehensively started this blog to prove to myself that I wouldn’t die if people read my writing.
It took a long six months to determine what my purpose for writing would be: bad decision make good stories. My mother passed when G was only two, and she didn’t get to see much of my father. He passed away when Effy was only 8 months old. I guess I came to the decision to write about the silliness of my childhood so my children would know a little about their grandparents and the family I grew up with. I wanted my children to understand that they were going to laugh about the bad decisions they made, and the punishment was something they were going to laugh about, too.
Three years later, that seems inadequate. Am I going to while away the hours just informing the world of all the stupid mistakes I’ve made, or is there a greater purpose to all of this (I’m flourishing my hands in an all-encompassing manner for effect)?
At this point, I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll continue to post so my children have some written record of how inane their mother really was. Or I’ll continue to write because maybe one day one of my decedents will be interested in what their great-great granny had to say.